Me and my sister wearing our grocery bag armor.Photo byauthor

I was teased by multiple kids throughout my childhood.David was my peaknemesis, a never-ending source of pain, who repeatedly shoved me and randomly punched me in the stomach at will. The physical pain wasn’t the only problem. It was the constant feeling of powerlessness and isolation that hurt more.

The trouble was often preceded by taunts from behind.

“Hey, wimp.”

“Hey, wimpy boy. I’m talking to you. Turn around.”

Sadly, he only picked fights when onlookers were available. Humiliation was a huge part of the appeal, which feels fairly sadistic in hindsight.I was always afraid to fight back and was completely embarrassed by my cowardice.

In my defense, David was huge for an 11-year-old.Was it worse to fight back and lose worse? Or cut your losses and just take it? I always chose the latter.

I don’t know that I’d describe the experiences as traumatic. But indulging those memories, even as I am now, doesn’t put me in a good mood. They are a far throw from my happy place.

Yes, David occasionally got in trouble. But never enough to alter hisbehavior.Teachers have a long a spotted history of policing bullying on the playground.

Where does it all start?

If anything was apparent, it was that David always looked angry. He carried an aura of agitation at the world, moving about like a small brooding volcano, ready to spew his wrath upon the locals.

Oddly enough, I’d been to David’s house for a group sleepover once before. His background did fit the trope of many bullies. He was from a broken home, and didn’t know much about his biological mother.Per David's own words, his father had an anger problem, andwasn’t around very often, spending his time partying with women, leaving David alone at home.

It does lend some credence to the old literature about children being exposed to abuse and violence at home and being more likely to bully other kids. Either way, his circumstances clearly played a role in my own misery and that of others.

But this is painfully common with many boys.Physical conflict on the playground is a near inevitability. It seems that each of us is eventually tested. You’re confronted about something or nothing, and your mere appearance can be the grounds for a beating.

The societal norms of masculinity condition boysto act tough, and show no weakness.We’re expected to have pride, stick our chests out, and not be weak.We are supposed to beat up the bad guy, no questions asked.

This societal influence not only empowers bullies but also insulates them from authority figures.In one attempt to tell a male teacher about the bullying, I was literally told, “Don’t be such a tattletale.”

What was the teacher expecting me to do? Go out and fight? And then turn around and put me in detention?It made no sense.

The withering gaze of hypermasculinity takes no prisoners.

We are put in precarious positions on the playground. Larger boys stand over us. They challenge our immediate space, giving us a list of bad options, with people looking on to assess how we react. Our self-respect is put on a collision course with our safety.

And it is opportune for an oversized 11-year-old like David, who loved testing boys’ spaces — but only if they were smaller than him.Typical.

I once saw him hold a boy down face-first into the sand while putting sand down the back of his pants. I saw him grab another boy by the hair, yanking them around as he cried out in pain, while futilely grabbing his wrists to stop it.

On a given day, he checked off every racial and homophobic slur in the book.He was thekid who taught your kids new bad words, and how to find pornography.David was bad, bad juju — and a symbol of the failings of our education system.

Fortunately, we moved away from Virginia Beach for my dad’s military career.

One decade later

I was 21 years old. My family had moved back to Virginia Beach a few years prior and I was in town from college.

It was summer. Raucous parties abounded in “the 757” as we called it — the area code for Virginia Beach.

I’d just arrived at a house party near the beachfront. We were in a three-storied townhouse, and it was early in the evening. The sun was setting, casting a warm and golden glow over the ocean.

The party was fairly crowded, with a few dozen people at most. The room was dimly lit, with early-2000s rap and rock echoing across theroom. Therewas a steady hum of conversation.

I was in the kitchen. We were near a keg, drinking cheap beer, and talking amongst ourselves. Although my memory fails me, our conversation probably involved infantile humor or the lack of girls present. We were a bit basic, and happily so.

As we talked, suddenly, I heard in an obnoxiously loud voice, “SEAN…SEAN KERNAN?!”

I turned to see a man pushing through the crowd with a huge beaming smile pointed right at me.

“Holy cow, is that David?” I thought.

He held his hands wide in greeting as he paced over like we were long-lost buddies. He shook my hand and gave me this over-the-top dude-bro hug.

I suspect many of you have had those moments where you reminisce and think of ways you could have owned someone in an argument. Or when you wish you’d just hauled off and punched the person in front of you.

I’ve certainly had those moments — and a few of them definitely involved David.

My boyhood self surely envisioned my fist sailing across his chin, with me getting a bunch of high-fives and being carried on everyone’s shoulders like a hero.And here he was — delivered: My childhood bully.

Fate had plopped him down on a platter, standing right in front of me. And man, had things changed in the intervening years.

Although David had been larger than all of us on the playground, he was nowmuchshorter than me.He was among the gilded chosen who peaked early. Meanwhile, I continued growing through my freshman year of college.

I’m not a small guy. I was a Division1 athlete and, a bit more equipped to deal with a bully at this junction of life. I’d also had time to reconsider my view on bullies in those years.

But I never felt anything close to the urge to brawl with David. Candidly, it would have been easy. I’m notnaturally the violent type, though I’ve had a few minor scuffles over the years.

Sure, if he’d tried to do more of the same from childhood, we could have figuredthings out in an older and more primitive language between men. But, given his pandering behavior, it didn’t seem the likely scenario. I would stay bully-free that night. As I had been for many nights before.

Candidly, I felt bad for David. He was in a pathetic drunken stupor.

With a cringe and painful lack of subtlety, he bragged to everyone in the kitchenabout how many girls he was “banging”. He was only 21 but badly out of shape, and looking pale in the face, probably from his excessive partying.

While David was overly friendly with me, I can’t say for certain that David had changed. After all,I no longer fit the criteria for his ideal target.How could I possibly know?

However, in the years since I’d moved away as a kid, I’d heard stories about David.

He’d been kicked out of the local school and sent to a much bigger public school. He had, allegedly, made the mistake of trying to bully kids from the other side of the track — Kids from rougher upbringings who weren’t afraid of a fight.

Apparently, David had been given an education.

Perhaps David had gotten his. Perhaps he’d been reformed out of bullying. Or maybe he’d just learnedon his own.

Or maybe he was still a bully, hidden under the thinly veiled guise of a long-lost friend that night. And while I have a fairly unpleasant past with David, I avoided picking a fight. it would be little more than dated, petty revenge.

It reminds me of that old Confuciussaying,“Before embarking on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

Meaning — you dig a grave for your intended and a grave for yourself. Had I picked a fight with David, I’d have become the very thing I despised. David was now the easy target.

We had an oddly pleasant conversation. We caught up on how our respective lives were going. Then — we left and went our separate ways.

I don’t think I’m better than David. I have a long list of mistakes from over theyears, and a menu of things I wish I could take back. I’ve been discourteous, selfish, and impulsive at times. I’ve let my emotions get the better of me. I’ve said many things I regret.

I suspect we’ve all been authors of chapters we’d like to forget.And so I hope David goes on and does well. I hope he does not inflict any more pain on the people around him.

Life is short. Too short for me to be carrying around anger towards him, and too short for him to be carrying anger towards the world.

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